The Development of Dean Winchester
by JustlikeWater
Summary: Saddled with an abusive, alcoholic father, Dean Winchester is forced to shoulder a burden far heavier than any teenager should carry—the survival and well-being of his younger brother. In a world teeming with sacrifice and pain, only Dean's guardian angel, Castiel, can pull Dean back to earth, heal his scars, and finally allow him to conquer his inner demons.
1. Part 1

**A/N: Hi, guys!** **First of all, I'd like to give a big thank you to my best friend, Prerana (** Keena Wedric-Ames **on Wattpad, guys!), and my wonderful editor, resrie71, for looking over this story and offering feedback. This story wouldn't have been possible without you two :)**

 **This story is a character study on Dean that will explore his issues with self-love, sexuality, and individuality. The first three or so chapters will detail Dean's childhood (his age will be indicated in Italics at the start of each new section) and then it'll jump right into Season five, where the boys first meet Cas. From that point, the focus will primarily be on Dean and Cas's relationship, both as friends and as romantic partners.**

 _ **Trigger Warnings:**_

 _ **Underage prostitution**_

 _ **Brief mentions of thoughts of self-harm**_

 _ **Homophobic language/Bi-erasure**_

 ** _Physical Abuse_ **

**I've always considered Dean such an interesting, complex, heart-breaking character, so I can't wait to start exploring the nuances of his actions, thoughts, and emotions. Thank you all in advance for embarking on this journey with me. :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Fourteen_

.

It's the middle of winter and Dean and Sam are alone in their hotel room. They've just finished their last package of saltines, they're out of cash, and Dad said he'd be back two days ago, but he hasn't picked up his phone in a week. Sam is wrapped in blankets on the room's creaky mattress, looking small and tired while he bites the inside of his cheek and stares drowsily at the wall.

"Sammy?" Dean says, dropping a hand onto his arm. "You good?"

"Yeah," Sam mumbles, nodding his head loosely. His eyelids droop downward and he shivers beneath the thin sheets. "Just hungry."

The last time they ate a full meal was three days ago. Dean throws his arm over Sam's skinny shoulders and pulls him close against his side. Terrified and at a loss for what to do, Dean stares unseeingly at the space above Sam's head. "You're gonna be okay, Sammy," he mumbles into his brother's hair. "You're gonna be fine."

Dean knows they need food and money. If he had a choice between one and the other, he'd choose money, because as starved as the two of them are, sitting outside on a park bench in the middle of winter would be ten times worse. They need to stay in this room, and to stay in this room, they need cash. And to get cash—well, his options are limited, and none sit well with him. He could steal someone's wallet, but Dean isn't all that sly and he can't risk getting thrown in jail and leaving Sam all by himself. He could probably beg for money on a corner somewhere, but this is a poor town with little to spare and it's nearly one in the morning anyway, so the streets are empty. If they owned anything of value, he'd pawn it, but as it stands, the only things they have are a couple of guns and Mary's ring, the latter of which Dean would never sell, and the former of which would definitely stir suspicions, as Dean is still a minor. The only thing he has left to offer are the clothes on his back and—himself.

It's when the motel owner comes pounding at their door shouting that he'll kick them out if they don't pay by tomorrow morning that Dean truly realizes how doomed things are. They've been through bad spots before, but nothing like this.

Dad doesn't answer his phone the twenty-sixth time Dean calls him. Voicemail, voicemail, voicemail. The discarded box of saltines sits on the floor, barren and mocking. Sam keeps shivering and sniffling beneath his arm. Dean's empty wallet gapes at him from the nightstand. The owner's thundering voice echoes in his mind. Cold, sickly dread unfurls in his stomach like poison. The decision looms over his head like fog.

"Sammy," Dean says, "I'll be back, okay?"

Then he pulls on his jacket and stumbles out into the cold, ready to do just about anything for a couple of bucks.

…

The bar is loud and sour-smelling. He's surrounded by drunk women, truck drivers, seedy men, and depressed alcoholics. He's fourteen and scared and sticking out like a sore thumb.

After being there for less than twenty minutes, a man his dad's age eyes him from across the room and beckons Dean over. His teeth look too white and his eyes are so brown they look black.

When Dean nervously sidles up beside him, the man leers down at Dean like he's a piece of meat. The words spill from his lips like slime. "And what's your name?"

…

The guy's car smells like booze and cigarettes. There's a pile of fast food wrappers strewn about the backseat. A postcard from Texas juts out of the half-open glove compartment. Two crushed beer cans teeter on the dashboard alongside a pile of loose change.

The reality of what Dean is doing doesn't sink in until he hears the car door click shut behind him and the man starts shedding his coat. The leather creaks as he pushes Dean onto his back and crawls over him, his hungry, dark eyes glinting in the moonlight like gunmetal. He grins and his teeth look sharp and predatory. "Pretty one, aren't you?"

The sound of his zipper is impossibly loud in the silent car. He tugs Dean's shorts down to his ankles in one rough pull.

"You ready?" the man purrs. It isn't a question. Suddenly, rough hands are everywhere, touching, prodding, grabbing, _ruining_ him. The man grins and undoes his belt. "Here we go, sugar."

Startled, Dean gasps in pain. _God, it hurts it hurts it hurts it-_

"Ah…fuck. Yeah, that's good, angel."

Dean can't think, can't speak. His senses are drowned by the sour smell of liquor, the burgundy color of the backs of his eyelids, and the terrible, burning ache spreading low in his body like fire. His head thuds rhythmically against the car door as the man pounds into him, hard enough to guarantee he'll be limping later. He grips Dean's hips with bruising force.

"Ah…ah…that's right, take it, yeah."

He can't breathe and can't think and the guy just keeps grunting and calling him sweetheart and Dean would give anything in the entire world to just fucking _die_ already.

…

Afterwards, Dean can't bring himself to think about what he's done—can't force himself to relive that pain and hatred and sour twist of lost innocence—so he just takes his money, runs to the 24-hour truck stop, buys all the food a twenty-dollar bill will get him, and rushes back to Sam. On the way to their room, he drops some money on the check-in counter and wins them another night in shelter.

"Dean," Sam says in awe, his eyes widened at the pile of food Dean unloads onto the bed. "Where did you get this stuff?"

He says the line he's been rehearsing all night. "Begged on a corner till some old lady gave me cash."

"Really?" Sam says, around a mouthful of granola bar. "That's all you had to do?"

He doesn't meet Sam's eyes. "Yep."

"Maybe I should try that sometime then."

" _No,"_ Dean snaps, whipping his head up to stare at Sam. "You don't ever worry about earning money, you got that?"

Sam frowns, the Nature Valley bar frozen by his mouth. "Why?"

Dean's hands start shaking, so he hides them in his jacket pockets. "Because that ain't something you need to worry about, alright? That's on me."

"What about Dad? When is he coming back?"

Dean clenches his jaw and looks away. He'd like to know the answer to that question too. "I don't know, Sammy. I guess when he's finished with the hunt." He sits down next to Sam and unwraps a fruit pie with his shaking fingers. He tries to smile reassuringly. "Until then, I'm gonna take care of us."

…

Dad comes back a day and a half later. He doesn't apologize for leaving them high and dry, he just knocks back a beer, ruffles Sam's hair, and asks Dean his usual post-hunt question.

"You take care of Sam, Dean?"

"Yes, sir."

In no time, it's back to the usual routine—drive, hunt, sleep, repeat. Sam more or less forgets what happened, the earth keeps turning, and John never bothers noticing that Dean can no longer look him in the eyes.

* * *

 _Fifteen_

.

It's the middle of December, and the thin, worn-out old hoodie Sam's had for three years isn't gonna cut it anymore.

"Dad," Dean says, once Sam's left the motel to do research at the library. "Sam needs a new jacket."

John looks up at him tiredly, his left cheek smudged with ink from the broken pen he's been using to annotate a book on werewolf lore. His eyes are red-rimmed from this morning's hangover, and the difficulty of this month's case clearly hasn't helped anything. "What's wrong with the one he has?"

"It's old and thin. He keeps telling me it's fine, but I tried it on yesterday and it feels like tissue paper."

"If Sammy says it's fine, then it's fine, Dean," John says dismissively. "And if it's that big of a deal, let him wear yours."

"I do. But mine's just as bad, so it doesn't really make a difference."

"Well, what the hell do you want me to do about it, Dean? Knit you a new one myself?"

Dean forces himself to stand his ground. "I just need a little money. I'll find one real cheap, I promise. I'm just worried that he's gonna catch a cold or something, and it might turn into pneumonia—"

"Wait a minute," John interrupts. "You want to go _shopping?_ We're in the middle of the biggest damn case in months, and you're asking me about _money_?" He laughs in disbelief and shakes his head. "Can't believe your nerve, boy."

"Dad—"

"If you need it so bad, go shark pool. I showed you how to, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Dean mutters. It's true, John did show him, but he's nowhere near as good as his father and he almost always ends up losing money rather than gaining it. "But why can't I just use the credit cards? I won't spend a lot, I promise."

"The IRS has been watching our asses since Ohio. We need to keep a low profile, so we can't go off on spending sprees in every town we touch, just because you wanna buy new digs."

"Dad, it's not about buying new—"

"I'm done talking about this, Dean," John says with finality, picking his pen back up and resuming his reading. "Now, why don't you make yourself useful and start cleaning those guns."

…

"I'm gonna go shoot some pool," Dean tells Sam three nights later as he pulls on his jacket and grabs his keys. "Don't wait up, okay?"

Sam looks up from his battered copy of _The Half-Blood Prince_ and nods. His bangs are hanging in front of his eyes and he's wearing one of Dean's old ACDC t-shirts with the hem tucked into his pajama pants. It's three sizes too big and his skinny frame is practically swimming in the extra material. Dean can't help the jolt of fondness he feels at the sight.

"Don't go to bed too late, alright, Sammy?"

"Okay, Dean," Sam says, and goes back to reading.

…

His target is a lanky, oily-haired guy who's playing pool on the other end of the bar. He's probably in his forties. Dean catches his eye and winks, and in an instant, the man's at his side, buying him a drink.

"I'm Steve," he tells Dean. "What's your name?"

Dean slides closer and offers a coy smile. He feels disgusting. "Whatever you want it to be."

The man eyes him predatorily. "You interested in a date, sweetheart?"

Dean takes his cue and bats his eyes. "Fifty?" he ventures sweetly.

Steve grins. "My rig's out back."

...

Afterward, Dean stumbles out of the truck, half dressed, with his boots in his hands and fifty bucks shoved crudely into his shorts. His partially buttoned shirt hangs off his bare shoulder and his hair sticks up in odd places. As he crosses the parking lot, someone calls him a whore.

When he gets back to the motel, everyone is asleep. On autopilot, he tucks the money into his duffle bag, kisses Sam's forehead goodnight, places a glass of water and aspirin by Dad's bed for tomorrow's hangover, and locks himself in the bathroom.

Dean climbs into the shower and scrubs his skin till it's raw, then cries until he feels like vomiting.

…

The next morning, when John's out hunting for booze, Dean walks Sam to the Walmart down the street and buys him a new winter jacket, a pair of mittens, and three wool scarves.

"Dean," Sam says in amazement, when they're on their way back to the motel. "Where did you get the money for all this?"

Dean forces a smirk and heaves the bag casually over his shoulder, as if he goes shopping like this all the time. "Told you I was gonna shoot some pool, didn't I? Turns out I'm pretty damn good at it."

Without warning, Sam stops him on the sidewalk and tackles him in a hug. Into Dean's chest, he says, "You're the best, Dean." His arms are wound so tightly around Dean's waist that Dean can barely breathe, but it's a good feeling.

Smiling, Dean settles into the embrace and ruffles up Sam's hair with his free hand. "Anything for you, Sammy."

* * *

 _Sixteen_

.

Sam and Dad never get along. They're always at each other's throats about something or another, and right now it's the fact that Sam would rather go the seventh grade dance than their witch stakeout.

"I already told you the answer, Sam," John says flatly, from behind the _Galena Gazette_. His reading glasses are perched on his nose and his index finger is carefully tracing the lines of this month's obituary column. "No means no."

"Dad," Sam pleads, still holding the bright pink flyer with _School Jamboree!_ written across the top in bubble letters. "All my friends are going and I promised Sandra I'd take her. Besides, all you and Dean are gonna do is stake out the witch's lair and look for charms, so it's not like I'll be missing much."

"You won't be missing much?" John repeats, lowering the paper. He takes off his glasses and rubs a hand over his face, indicating that what's about to come next is going to be a long, reprimanding lecture. "Tell me, Sam, what's more important to you: dancing around in your school gym for two hours, or saving the lives of every man, woman, and child in this town? Would you rather drink punch and talk with your little friends, or take down a group of monsters that could wipe this town out like a grease smudge? Is this jamboree so goddamn important that you'd risk the possibility of your brother or me getting killed because you weren't there for backup? Is it really that important, Sam? Because if it is, then by all means, put on your best jeans and go." He picks the paper back up and straightens it out, his eyes returning to the article he left off on. "If it isn't, however, then I suggest you iron that frown out of your face and help your brother pack the trunk, because we're leaving in a half hour."

…

As it turns out, the stakeout was as uneventful as Sam predicted. Dean is tempted to jokingly give Sam props for calling it, but when he wakes up and sees that Sam has dejectedly buried himself under a pile of his blankets the next morning, he decides he'd better not. John heads out at the crack of dawn to 'talk to a man about a hex', so it's just the two of them.

"You want something to eat, Sammy?" Dean asks, prodding the lump under Sam's sheets. Sam just groans in response and refuses to roll over, so Dean takes the hint and heads to the Gas N' Sip on the corner for their breakfast.

In an effort to cheer Sam up, he adds a National Geographic magazine to his basket of off-brand Cheerios and bottled water. He pays with last weekend's cash (back alley, thirty bucks for a quick blow) and then walks straight back to their room to wake Sam up.

A terrible, inexplicable sinking feeling fills him the moment he returns to their motel. Immediately, without any real evidence, he knows something is wrong. He knocks on the door and it creaks open, unlocked. He steps into the room and sees Sam isn't in his bed.

"Sammy?" he calls, panic twisting in his throat. When no one answers, he drops the groceries and darts to the bathroom, the only other place Sam could possibly be.

Sam isn't there.

A hundred bucks are gone from their stash and Sam's duffle bag is missing.

Dread sinks in Dean's gut like a stone.

…

When John comes in sometime around midnight, Sam's still gone.

After Dean tells him, John paces for five minutes straight, clenching and unclenching his fists. Finally, he turns to Dean with a cold, furious look on his face. "What the hell have I always told you?"

"I know, always take care of Sa—"

"Shut the hell up with that," John barks. "Clearly you _don't_ know, otherwise Sam would still be here right now."

Dean's throat aches. "Dad, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I just—"

John looks at him harshly. "You _didn't mean to_ , Dean? What the fuck is that worth? Your brother's _gone_ and you're fucking _sorry?_ You think that's gonna change anything?"

Part of him wants to say it's John's fault for upsetting Sam and treating him like crap in the first place, but a bigger part of Dean can't help but take full responsibility for letting Sam leave on his watch.

"Dad," he pleads, his eyes stinging.

" _Sir,"_ John corrects grimly. He shifts his jaw and turns away. "You know what? Don't bother looking me in the eye until you find Sam."

Dean swallows down the ache in his chest and bows his head. "Yes, sir."

…

Every night, he goes to bed thinking about Sam. Sweet, smart, good-hearted Sam with his bright future and his big smile. His floppy bangs that he could never keep out of his eyes. His stack of Harry Potter books that he marked up with post-its and highlighter. His perpetually untied shoelaces.

If he's dead, Dean's climbing into his grave and joining him.

…

When he finally finds Sam two weeks later, he's in Flagstaff, sitting on a patch of grass in front of an old shack, playing with a stray dog.

 _Thank fucking god._ Dean screeches the Impala to a halt and jumps out of the car with his heart in his throat and his hands shaking.

"Hey, Dean!" Sam says, waving. He grins and pets the animal beside him. "His name's Bones. I taught him how to shake and fetch and—"

Dean grabs Sam mid-sentence and pulls him into a suffocating hug. "Don't you ever do that again, you dumbass," Dean growls, clutching Sam protectively in his arms. "I thought you were _dead."_

Sam looks confused when he pulls away. "Why?"

"Because you just up and left, Sam!" Dean cries. "And you didn't even leave a fucking note. You didn't even call. I've spent the past two fucking weeks imagining every possible way something sneaked in and grabbed you. I thought you were dust, man."

"Oh."

Dean shakes his head. "Get your stuff, we're going."

Sam looks back at the dog. "Can I bring—"

"No."

…

They don't talk much on the road.

"You and dad must've been on a pretty big hunt," Sam says into the silence.

Dean casts him a sideways look. "What makes you say that?"

"You're all banged up," Sam replies, staring at Dean's profile. "Black eye, bruises all over your arms. What was it?"

 _Punishment for not keeping an eye on you,_ Dean thinks to himself.

"Nasty skinwalker who put up a fight," he says instead, keeping his eyes on the road. "Don't worry about it."

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you so much for reading, everyone! Please let me know what you think in the comments, your feedback is food for my writer soul!** **The next chapter will be up by next Saturday, so make sure to sub/follow!**

 **Until next time, darlings!**


	2. Part 2

**A/N: Hey guys! I was super excited about updating, so I've decided to post this chapter today rather than tomorrow. I had a blast writing this, so I hope you all have just as much fun reading it!**

 ***Warning in this chapter for homophobic language***

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Seventeen_

.

"You excited about ninth grade, Sammy?" Dean asks, when the two of them are skipping stones in the creek behind their motel. They're staying in a little town in Illinois for the next few weeks while their dad tracks a nest of vamps, and tomorrow is their first day at John Steinbeck High School.

Sam gives him an amused look and squats down to find a new rock. "I guess so."

"What's with the funny face?"

"Well, you've never asked me that before," Sam shrugs, tossing the smooth black stone across the water. He glances at Dean. "Are _you_ excited about being a senior?"

Dean forces a jaunty grin. "Hell yeah! Hot cheerleaders and house parties, what's not to love about high school?"

"So you're not nervous?"

Dean snorts. "Nah, course not. Senior year is gonna be a breeze."

Sam rolls his eyes and begins searching for a new rock. "That's because you've got it easy, Dean. No one thinks you're _weird_ or _nerdy_."

"Hey, if anyone says something to you, you tell me and I'll kick their ass six ways from Sunday."

"I don't need you to do that, Dean. It's fine."

"I'm serious, Sammy. The only person around here who can call you a nerd is _me_."

"Jerk," Sam mutters. He tosses Dean the perfect rock, watching as it sails through the air and glints in sun like a jewel.

Dean grins and catches it. "Bitch."

…

In reality, Dean hates being the new kid. He's done it a thousand times and he'll no doubt do it a thousand times more, but it's nerve-wracking and uncomfortable and no matter how long he's been through this, it'll always feel just as terrible as the first time. He hates that his shirts have holes in them and his hands are calloused from shooting guns and his brain can't seem to soak things up as quickly as everyone else's. He hates that the girls only hook up with him out of rebellion, or curiosity, or pity, and the guys steer clear because he's surly and detached and they don't want anything to do with him. He hates that the teachers assume he's a bad egg and write him off. He hates that John doesn't give a shit about his failing report card. He hates that he and Sam are constantly forced to pick up and move on, just when things are starting to settle.

And he already knows he's going to fucking _hate_ senior year.

* * *

The next morning, Dean rises with the sun and heads to the Impala so he can go over his school supply checklist one last time. Sam's backpack? Check. Sam's in-case-of-emergencies money? Check. Sam's freshly minted school ID? Check. The only thing left is Sam's lunch. Dean opens the cooler in the backseat, looking for the brown bag he packed for Sam the night before, only to find that John has filled the entire thing with cans of beer.

In two seconds flat, Dean is pissed. He's completely fucking _furious_ at John for carelessly dumping out Sam's lunch just so he'd have somewhere to stow his booze. He's so angry that his hands are shaking, and he's pretty sure if John were still in their motel room, he'd be crazy enough to storm in and yell at him. Fortunately for Dean, Dad's drunk off his ass in some sleazy bar, which means Dean won't have to face the (painful) ramifications of telling his father to go to hell.

Which, in all honesty, is probably for the best.

First things first, Dean digs his own lunch out of his ratty, half-torn backpack and drops it into Sam's. He can deal with his hunger tomorrow, because by then he'll have earned enough cash to go grocery shopping. Hustling pool, picking pockets, turning tricks—it's all white noise at this point. Just business as usual. Lately, he's found that it's easier to endure his 'dates' if he keeps his eyes shut and thinks about all the useful things he can buy for him and Sam with the money. Name-brand cereal, fresh milk, peanut butter, new shoes, new backpacks, pens and pencils for class, orange juice, magazines, textbooks, cinnamon rolls, sherbet ice cream, t-shirts with no holes in them, new laces for their boots, shampoo that doesn't smell like plastic, and bread that doesn't taste like cardboard.

Dean wishes he could give Sam the kind of life where their next meal didn't depend on a fake credit card or a stolen wallet. He wishes Sam lived in a world where his Christmas wish list was childish and exorbitant, instead of dry and pragmatic and filled with things like "socks" and "new toothbrush" and "number two pencils." He wishes he had the ability to tell Sam that the monsters under his bed were fake and that Santa and the Easter Bunny were real. He wishes Sam could go to school dances instead of stakeouts. He wishes Sam didn't know how to slit throats or break necks or burn corpses.

He just wishes Sam could have a normal life.

And maybe that's why the beer in the cooler pisses him off so much; it's just another example of John's failure to look out for them. Dean's a fucking _teenager_ and he's doing more to take care of Sam than their father ever has. He's whoring himself out, carving up pieces of his dignity and selling it to strangers, all so that his little brother can afford to have a fucking sandwich at lunch like a normal kid, instead of the half-eaten bag of Funyuns their father carelessly threw together for him.

"Hey!" a voice calls from outside.

Dean looks up to find Sam tapping the window.

"My bad, Sammy," Dean says, reaching over to unlock the door and push it open. "Didn't realize it was locked."

"S'okay," Sam says cheerfully, climbing into the passenger seat. His smile falters when he catches Dean's expression. "Hey, are you okay, Dean?"

Dean forces the bad mood out of his system and fondly ruffles Sam's hair. "'Course I am, Sammy. Just 'cause you're nervous about being a freshman, doesn't mean I'm shaking over being a senior."

"Hey!" Sam protests. "I am _not_ nervous about being a freshman!"

"Sure you aren't, kiddo."

Sam pouts, his ridiculous bangs flopping in front of his eyes. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Can I at least listen to my music on the way there?" Sam whines.

Dean tsks and shakes his head. "You know the rules, baby bro. Driver picks the music and shotgun—"

"Shuts his cakehole," Sam finishes wearily.

"That's right, Sammy." Dean shoves the key in the ignition and turns the volume to full blast. "Now sit back, relax, and bask in the timeless glory of Metallica."

* * *

The first week of school is complete shit, just like he was expecting. He has no idea what the hell is going on in any of his classes, the students treat him like garbage, and he can't afford to buy half the school supplies he needs. He had no idea how expensive senior year would be, so when his math teacher tells him he has to spend a hundred bucks on a _'TI-83 graphing calculator',_ he is completely caught off guard. She offers to let him borrow one, but he can't stand the pity in her eyes so he lies and tells her that his brother might have one he can borrow.

The one bright spot amidst this otherwise pitch-black experience is that he meets a cool girl named Melanie on his third day.

Mel is a curvy, brown-eyed, caramel-skinned girl with a loud personality and the prettiest smile he's ever seen. She's gorgeous and funny and Dean thinks he might want to date her, but when he asks her out two weeks after meeting her, she tells him she has a girlfriend.

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. "You're gay?"

"Nope," Mel answers, grabbing her science book from her locker. "I'm bi."

He frowns. "You're what?"

"Bisexual," she clarifies. When his expression doesn't change, she tilts her head. "Do you not know what that is?"

Oddly, when she says that sentence, it doesn't sound like she's calling him stupid, even though in the past, hearing that phrase has always made him feel like the biggest idiot on the planet.

"Um, no," he admits, scratching the back of his head. "I don't."

"Oh. Well, it means I'm into guys and girls," she says simply.

Something inside Dean's chest stirs at that explanation. Briefly, his mind dredges up an image of that guy in his English class, with the dimples and the messy blonde hair. "You…you can like both?" He tries not to sound so hopeful. "Doesn't that just mean you're gay, though?"

She rolls her eyes and shuts her locker. "No, silly, we don't live in the nineteenth century anymore; there's a very broad range of sexualities that aren't just gay or straight. Bisexuality just happens to be one of them."

He bites the inside of his cheek. "So…so hypothetically, if a guy, um, liked a guy, but still thought girls were hot, he wouldn't be gay?"

"Nope. Your identity is up to you and you only, Dean," she replies with a wink. "Now why don't we head to Bio before Mr. Rivera gets liberal with those tardy slips?"

* * *

Sam needs thirty bucks for a class fieldtrip and the guy two barstools away has been giving Dean lusty eyes all night. Dean knows what to do by now. He saunters over, smiles coyly, and says his usual spiel.

"Pretty thing like you for fifty?" the man says, eyeing Dean up and down like he's merchandise at a store. He wets his bottom lip. "Sure thing, sugar. There's an alley out back."

...

It's far from the first time, but when it's over and Dean is back at their motel, he still sits down on the shower floor and cries until he can't breathe.

* * *

Jason Roberts is the human equivalent of a pile of bricks. Ninety percent of his personality is football plays and half-wit insults, and the other ten percent is incoherent grunting noises and offensive slurs.

He stops Sam and Dean while they're walking down the hall after third period one day, with his crowd of goons and admirers gathered behind him like soldiers. Dean knows in an instant that things are about to get really, _really_ shitty.

"Saw you giving some dude head out by Lion's Den last night, Winchester," Roberts jeers. "I knew you were stupid as fuck, but I didn't realize you were a fag too."

Laughter bubbles in the crowd around him, cruel and taunting.

Dean's face is burning. Not because he's embarrassed for himself, but because he's embarrassed for Sam. He'd give anything for his brother to be somewhere else right now.

"Just let me go to my goddamn class, Roberts," he growls.

Roberts just laughs and plants himself in front of Dean, crossing his arms over his chest. "Tell you what: I'll let you by if you answer one question, Winchester."

Dean grits his teeth so hard he can hear his molars gnashing. "What."

"See, I'm just wondering: how does this whole cocksucker thing work? Is it hereditary? Is your dad one too?" His eyes fall to Sam. "Or what about this little freak right here? He a fag? With that long-ass, girly hair I bet he is—"

Without missing a beat, Dean pulls his arm back and punches Roberts square in the face. The guy's nose fucking _explodes_ , blood spurts everywhere, and Dean feels the exact moment the cartilage cracks beneath his knuckles. The crowd jumps back in surprise and Roberts howls in pain, but Dean just shoves him to the floor and keeps beating him, his fists thundering down on the guy's face like a storm.

"Dean Winchester! Stop this at once!" a voice calls frantically. He thinks it might be a teacher, but he can't bring himself to care.

Sam ends up having to pull him off Roberts, because the supervisors are too afraid to touch him. "Dean, stop!" Sam shouts, grabbing his arm and yanking him back. "It's done, it's over, he's had enough!"

Dean gets off of Roberts' quivering, bloody body and looks down at him with cold eyes. "Don't ever talk about my brother, you piece of shit."

Then he saves the staff the trouble of escorting him to office by slinging his backpack over his shoulder and heading there himself.

…

"Dean Winchester, you are _expelled,"_ Principal Harley declares thunderously. He pounds his fist so hard against the desk that his nameplate shakes. "I never want to see your face around this school again!"

Dean couldn't give less of a fuck and doesn't hesitate to tell the principal as much.

…

The car ride back to the motel is tense.

"Dean," Sam tries, after five minutes. "Are you okay?"

 _No._

"Yeah," he says shortly. "I'm fine."

"That isn't true."

"Sure it is."

"Dean—"

"Drop it, Sam," he warns.

Sam is quiet for a bit.

"Dean, you know I don't care who you like, right?"

He keeps his eyes on the road. "I don't know what you mean."

"What Jason said about the Lion's Den," Sam says carefully. "It doesn't bother me. I don't care if you like guys."

Bile threatens to crawl up his throat. Self-hatred burns beneath his skin. "He was just being an asshole. Ignore what he said."

"But—"

"I'm not a fag, Sam," Dean says between gritted teeth, "So _ignore what he said_."

Sam starts to say something, but thinks better of it and turns to face the window instead.

…

Even without Dean telling him, Sam doesn't breathe a word of what happened when they get back to the motel and John asks about their day.

* * *

 _Eighteen_

.

"Drama club, Sam? _Really?"_ John sneers, staring down at the permission slip Sam has just handed him. Dean sits in a chair by the window, quietly cleaning his guns and watching the scene unfold from the corner of his eye.

"Yes," Sam says defiantly. "Mrs. Garcia said I have a lot of potential and I want to join."

"That so?"

" _Yes._ Can you please just sign it?"

John scoffs and drops the paper onto the motel room's small table. "You're dreaming if you think I'm gonna let you skip out on hunts for this queer shit, Sam."

Dean's fingers freeze at the slur. An irrational bolt of fear shoots down his spine like lightning.

Sam glares up at their father, his eyes fiery. "So what if I miss a few hunts? Am I not allowed to have a life?"

John's eyes go cold. "You've always been like this, Sam: pushing family away and spitting on what we do. You think dancing around on some fucking stage is more important than saving people's lives?"

"Of course not!" Sam shouts. "But just because I hunt, doesn't mean I can't do normal stuff, too! It doesn't mean I can't live my life!"

"This is what you call living your life? Do you really care so goddamn little about the family business?"

"I don't know, dad, that depends," Sam snarls. "By 'family business' do you mean hanging out in bars and getting wasted? Because you've definitely been leading by example these past few years."

In an instant, the entire room falls silent. Dean sits absolutely still and watches the two of them glare at each other, their faces inches apart and radiating with fury.

"Get the hell out of my sight, Sam," John growls at last. His clenched fists are shaking at his sides.

"With pleasure," Sam spits, ripping his jacket off the coatrack and storming out of the room.

When Sam leaves, he slams the door so hard that Dean can feel it his teeth.

…

Once John disappears to go get drunk, Dean hops in the Impala and tracks down Sam. Thankfully, it's a short search. He finds him sitting at the bus stop ten minutes away with his hood up and his hands stuffed in his pockets. Dean gets out of the car and joins him.

"Hey," Dean says.

"Hey."

"You good?"

"No," Sam says flatly. "I wanna punch something."

"My hand?" Dean offers, half-serious, holding his palm open to his brother. Back when Sam was little, Dean used to help him practice his swing by holding his hands up and letting Sam hit them.

"No," Sam grumbles. "I'd break it."

"That mad, huh?"

"Yeah."

After a beat passes, Dean decides to choose a different route. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Sam scuffs his shoes against the gravel. "I don't get why Dad won't let me have a life. I do what he says, I go on hunts and stakeouts and all that and I never complain, so why am I not allowed to do stuff for myself every once and a while? Is joining Drama club really too much to ask for? I just want a break sometimes, you know? I like saving people, Dean. I do. But I also want to do things that make me happy and _don't_ involve killing monsters. Shouldn't I be allowed that much? Isn't that a fair thing to ask for?"

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says around a sigh. "It is."

He tries to conjure up some comforting words of wisdom, but he finds himself posing the same unanswerable questions as Sam. When _do_ they get a break? Why is it that they're the ones who have to clean up the world's mess? Why can't they just be two normal kids for once?

He gives Sam a sidelong look. "Would you have actually gotten on a bus?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe."

"Don't leave, Sam," he says quietly. He hates how vulnerable he sounds, but he can't help it. "Not again."

When Sam turns and looks at him, his gaze is steady. "I know, Dean. I won't."

Dean almost says _, I don't know what I'll do if it's just me and him, Sammy. I need you around. You balance us out. You give me a reason to keep going. I can't be alone_.

Instead, however, he forces a crooked smile and bumps his shoulder into Sam's. "Good."

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"I'm sorry for what dad said."

"About what?"

"The queer thing."

Dean bristles. "Sam, I'm not—"

"I love you, Dean," Sam interrupts matter-of-factly. "And like I've said, that isn't gonna change because of who you like."

"I'm _not_ —"

"Doesn't matter. Just want you to know."

Dean swallows his protest and lets that sink in. "You ready to head back now?"

Sam sighs. "Do I have a choice?"

"Not really, no." He stands up and offers Sam his hand. "But if we go right now, we can rescue your permission slip from the garbage can and I'll forge Dad's signature."

* * *

"'Scuse me—sorry—oh, watch your feet—my bad—yikes—pardon me—man, these rows sure are small, aren't they?"

Once Dean has finally managed to cram his six foot tall frame into seat A5 of the front row, he casts an apologetic look down the aisle at all the people whose feet he trampled on the way over. Apparently high school theaters aren't all that accommodating for people taller than the average seventh grader.

The stage is still covered by a red curtain, so he digs into his pocket for his program. The play is called _Oklahoma_! and Sam is playing some cowboy dude called Curly McLain, whose love interest is apparently being played by the prettiest girl in Sam's grade, Connie-something. Sam's been talking nonstop about the play for a month and has spent every waking moment of free time rehearsing his lines. Unsurprisingly, John's been too busy hanging around bars or disappearing on hunting trips to notice.

Now, to see everything coming together, Dean can't help but feel a huge wave of secondhand excitement for his little brother. He's also proud as hell, because Sam managed to score a leading role despite the fact that this is his first year in Drama.

A girl with braces walks across the stage with a microphone in her hand and faces the audience. "Welcome and thank you for coming to Lincoln High School's first-ever production of _Oklahoma!_ " She goes on to list the names of cast members and backstage helpers, offering a big thank you to all the parents and teachers, before bowing and exiting the stage. The lights dim and the audience falls silent.

"Here we go, Sammy," Dean whispers to himself, drumming his fingers excitedly against his thigh. "Show time."

The curtain rises, revealing cardboard cutouts of hay and cattle, and a giant blue sheet with clouds painted across the top. Right in the center of the stage stands Sam, wearing overalls and a cowboy hat, with a stalk of wheat held between his teeth. He looks out at the audience for a second, almost anxiously, before his eyes land on Dean and his entire body relaxes. Dean shoots him a quick thumbs up and grins encouragingly. Sam flashes a smile back.

Then, with his eyes shining brighter than the spotlight glowing over him, Sam opens his mouth and sings.

" _There's a bright, golden haze on the meadow,_

 _There's a bright, golden haze on the meadow._

 _The corn is as high as an elephant's eye…"_

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! Please let me know what you think in the comments, your feedback helps so much with the writing process. Make sure to sub/follow :)**

 **Until next Saturday!**


	3. Part 3

**A/N: Apologies for the late update, guys, I had a ton of college apps due this weekend. This chapter is a two-parter and the next bit will be up by Friday at the latest. After I post chapter four, I'll let you know what the concrete updating schedule is going to be, as I'm currently juggling three stories right now.**

 **Thanks for the awesome feedback, enjoy!**

* * *

 _Nineteen_

.

The fact that Dean doesn't end up graduating from high school comes as a shock to absolutely no one.

Sam, of course, is upset on Dean's behalf, but when Dean ruffles his hair and assures him that he's one-hundred percent fine with this—prefers it, even—Sam relents. John, on the other hand, doesn't even have the decency to look surprised when Dean tells him. He just knocks back his morning beer and offers a gruff, "School wasn't your thing, anyway."

Dean _does_ manage to get his GED, though. And in the privacy of his mind, he commends himself for doing that much, at least.

* * *

"We'll be here for a while, boys, so get comfy," John tells Sam and Dean as they step into their room one night. It's two A.M. and they're staying in a motel called _Lucky 8_ on the outskirts of Glendive, Montana. John locks the door behind them and salts the floor, as per their nighttime ritual.

"Why?" Sam asks, dropping his duffle bag onto the bed. John makes a beeline for the mini-fridge and starts replenishing his stash.

"A buddy of mine needs help with a local ghoul nest and it's gonna take some time to flush 'em out."

"How long?"

"As long as it takes, Sam," John mutters, sweeping the contents of the top shelf into his coat pockets. A miniature bottle of Jack Daniels springs from his hand and rolls beneath the bed unnoticed.

"And what does that mean?"

John doesn't notice the sharpness of his tone. "It means what it means, Sam."

Dean flops down beside Sam's bag and shoves his face into a pillow, trying to ignore the palpable tension brewing in the air.

Sam clenches his jaw. "Can I have a real answer?"

John unscrews the white plastic cap of a travel-sized tequila and knocks it back, his throat bobbing with the single gulp. "You're saying my answer wasn't 'real'?"

"No, it wasn't," Sam says shortly. "It was something vague to shut me up. I want to know if I should bother enrolling in school here, or if you're just going to up and decide that we're leaving again tomorrow morning."

John puts down the empty bottle and stares at him from across the room, his red-rimmed eyes narrowed. "You trying to insinuate something, here, Sam?"

"No," Sam says flatly, his tone bordering on sarcastic. "I meant exactly what I said. Nothing was implied."

"You know what, Sam? I don't like your attitude."

"Yeah?" Sam says, an edge of challenge slipping into his voice. "Well _I_ don't like moving from school to school depending on your mood."

"You're kidding, right?" John says with a laugh. After a beat, he drops the mock-cheerful expression and stares at Sam with fuming eyes. "Sam I don't know what the hell's gotten into you, but you better check yourself right fucking now, boy. You're too damn old to be throwing tantrums. You know exactly why we have to stay on the move, so don't pretend it's just me doing whatever the hell my heart desires."

"Sure feels like it," Sam says bitterly. He grabs his clothes out of his bag and stalks to the bathroom before John can reply. "I'll be in the shower."

John watches him slam the door, his jaw flexing in anger.

"What the hell is happening with that kid?" John mutters, shaking his head and uncapping another tequila. He doesn't wait for a reply and Dean doesn't give one.

* * *

Now that he's finally staying in one area long enough to make some commitments, Dean decides to apply for a job at the local car shop, Freeman Auto Repair. It's within walking distance, but Dean decides to drive anyway so he can show off Baby. If nothing else, she can serve as evidence of his handiwork.

…

Freeman's garage is small and only fits three cars at a time, but there's good music streaming from the radio and the air is heavy with motor oil and gasoline, so it already feels like home. He scopes the place for the person in charge, but the only guy in sight is nose deep in the engine of a red sixty-eight Camaro. He's wearing heavy workman's boots and faded blue jeans with oil-stained leather gloves tucked into the back pocket.

"Hey," Dean calls, making sure to give the guy plenty of warning so he doesn't hit his head on the lid in surprise. "Is the boss around?"

"You looking for a job or a fix up?" the guy asks without looking away from the engine. "Because if it's for a fix up, you gotta run that by Jerry, the head mechanic. He ain't here right now, but I'm sure he'll swing by after lunch if you're willing to wait."

"Uh, no, I'm actually looking for a job," Dean admits, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"That so?"

"Yeah. Know who I could talk to about that?"

"Me," the guy says, straightening up. He wipes the grease off on his jeans before shaking Dean's hand and offering a dimpled grin. "I'm Trevor, but my friends call me Trev. I'm the guy with hiring and firing power around here."

Dean returns the shake. "So you're the boss?"

"Eh. Not really. The owner is a friend and he puts me in charge when he's out and about."

Trevor is an inch shorter than Dean, but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in lean, defined muscle. He has tan skin, dark, curly hair, and a big white-toothed smile that lights up his entire face. His oil-stained tank top clings to his trim torso and his jeans hang low on his narrow hips. A single strip of golden skin peeks out from beneath the material of his shirt, revealing the shadowed juts of his hipbones and the flat plane of his abdomen. Dean forces his eyes upwards when he realizes he's been staring.

"Got it." He clears his throat. "I'm Dean."

"Nice to meet you, Dean." Trevor glances over Dean's shoulder and gestures at Baby. "That your car?"

"Yeah, sixty-seven Impala. Fixed her up myself."

"Mind if I take a look?"

"By all means, man."

Feeling strangely nervous, Dean watches Trevor poke and prod at the car. For some reason, it is vitally important that he approves of Dean's work.

"Solid rims, smooth engine," Trevor says under his breath, walking around the Impala with narrowed eyes. "Glossy paintjob, good tread, pristine undercarriage." After another minute of inspection, he looks up at Dean and whistles lowly. "I gotta say, Dean, I'm impressed."

Dean's face warms. "Thanks."

"Now, what do you say we do a little live demonstration? I'm not finished with that Camaro yet, so if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to see you take a swing at it."

"Really?"

"Sure thing." Trevor grins and tosses him a rag. "Diagnose the issue and I'll tell you if it's on the money or not."

Dean nods and examines the exposed engine. After a beat, the words come as easily to him as a second language. "Well, here, it looks like the camshaft belt slipped off. That's no good because without it, the engine's valves won't open and close during each cylinder's exhaust stroke. That'll definitely cause some ignition problems, so you should replace that as soon as possible."

"And?" Trevor prompts.

Dean narrows his eyes at the tangle of metal. "The cabling of the spark plug is all screwed up, but if you reroute some of the wires to the central electrode and cool down the engine, you should be fine."

"That all?"

"Yeah."

Trevor looks at him with an unreadable expression. "Dean, that was…"

Dean swallows. "What?"

Trevor's face breaks out in a grin. "Hell, it was perfect. Absolutely goddamn perfect," He throws an arm around Dean's shoulders. "Welcome to the garage, man."

"Really?" Dean says, a strange mix of pride and excitement flooding his chest. For once, he has accomplished something completely on his own. He's _earned_ this. "Uh, thanks, Trevor."

"I like you, Dean," Trevor announces. He releases him with a grin and winks. "And you know what? Call me Trev."

…

Dean doesn't share the good news until later that night, when he and Sam are sitting on the roof of the motel, sharing a bag of M&M's Dean bought on the way home.

"So," Dean says, tossing a green candy into his mouth, "I got a job today."

"What?" Sam whips around to face him, his eyes wide and bright with joy, like someone just told him Christmas was coming early this year. "Why didn't you say something sooner, Dean? That's awesome!"

Dean chuckles at Sam's eagerness and shakes his head. "Don't get too excited, Sammy. I'm not a CEO or anything. Just a grease monkey at Freeman's."

"Don't downplay it, Dean," Sam chides, bumping his shoulder companionably into Dean's. "I know how much you love cars, and I know how excited you must be about this job." He smiles, all dimpled and sweet, just like he used to when he was a little kid. "I'm happy for you."

Dean smiles back and slings an arm over Sam's shoulder, then raises his chin and gazes up at the stars. "Things are lookin' up, Sammy," he says with a content sigh. "Lady Luck is finally knocking at my door."

Sam lets his head fall against Dean's shoulder. "Are you going to tell Dad?"

Dean frowns at the mention of John, but tries not to let it ruin his good spirits. "If he asks, I'll tell him, but I doubt he'll care if I just bring it up out of nowhere. He'll probably just tell me I could be spending my time doing more important things, like hunting."

There's a beat of silence.

"I'm proud of you, Dean," Sam says. "I don't know if that means anything because I'm a kid, but I'm really proud of you and everything you've done."

Dean leans his cheek against the top of Sam's head and keeps his eyes fixed on the sky. "It means the world, Sammy."

* * *

The next day, Trevor lets Dean get to work right away.

"Rusted undercarriage," Trevor announces, emerging from beneath the silver Chevrolet. "Nasty stuff, but not hard to remove. Doubt it'll take long with the two of us working on it."

Dean blinks. "What?"

"Yup." He tosses him a wire brush and a bottle of wax remover. "Now let's get to it."

Dean hesitates. "You don't want me to watch you first or something?"

It's not that Dean doesn't want to work or that he thinks the task is beyond him, it's just that no one (except for maybe Sam) has ever fully _trusted_ him with anything before. John always treats Dean like a dumb kid, his teachers always dismissed him entirely, and his peers never even bothered to give him the time of day.

Trevor rolls his eyes. "I've seen your car, remember? You know what you're doing, man, I'm not gonna make you sit here and play student. Now, are you joining me under here or what?"

"Yeah," Dean says, breathing a bit easier. "I'm in."

…

"So how old are you, man?" Trev asks as they scrub away the rust.

"Just turned nineteen," Dean answers, wiping the sweat and black grease from his brow. "You?"

"Twenty-one, but my birthday's coming up."

"Well, happy early birthday, then."

Trev laughs. "Thanks. You still in school?"

"Dropped out."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean replies with a half-hearted laugh, "I was too dumb."

"Tsk, now that's a bold-faced lie if I've ever heard one."

Dean looks at him. "Why?"

"Because you're clearly a smart guy, Dean," Trev says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Maybe you're not book smart, but you know about things that matter. Not everyone can fix up a car like it's nobody's business."

Dean savors Trev's words but doesn't comment on them. "Did you finish high school?"

"Sure did," he says, smoothing a layer of wax remover over the muffler. "Graduated as a valedictorian."

Dean can't help the shocked look on his face. "Really?"

Trev laughs. "Yeah, I know. The guy picking rust off the bottom of a truck graduated in the top five percent—it doesn't make sense." He puts down the wire brush for a moment. "But see, that's the whole point: it doesn't make sense. I did all of the 'right' things, took all the good classes and did my work, but I still ended up here. Don't get me wrong, I love this job. I'm just saying that no matter what fancy-schmancy thing I did in school, I still wound up with the same job as Barry over there, a dude who didn't get an education past tenth grade. Doesn't that say something about what real intelligence looks like?" He gives Dean a pointed look as he hands him the bucket of oxalic acid. "It's not measured by a GPA, man, that's for damn sure."

* * *

Trevor, as it turns out, is the coolest guy Dean's ever met. He's funny, smart as a whip, great with cars, and never makes Dean feel like an idiot. And that's more than he can say about his friends in the past. Even his own _father_ has never been this good to him.

"Wanna swing by later and watch the game or something?" Trev asks, when they're sitting on the curb outside Freeman's after work one day. "My house ain't much, but I can promise functioning cable and an ice cold six pack."

"Hey, that's all I need," Dean laughs. "I'm in."

"Cool," Trev grins. "Fair warning, my place is a little, uh, rough around the edges, so don't expect anything from Lifestyle magazine when you show up."

…

"It's so cool that you live on your own," Dean says, walking around Trevor's living room in awe. Trevor wasn't lying when he said he wasn't exactly living in the lap of luxury, but as dingy and old as everything may be, it's still his _._ Everything in this house is a product of Trev's hard work: he _earned_ this.

"It gets lonely sometimes," Trevor admits, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Coming home to nothing but a D-grade mattress and a couple of chairs can get kinda depressing."

"But they're _your_ D-grade mattress and chairs," Dean insists. "You're independent. You're—free."

Dean can feel Trevor staring at him, but he doesn't turn and look.

"Dean, you could have a setup like this too, you know."

"Nah," Dean shakes his head and smiles sadly. "I couldn't."

"Hey," Trevor says, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I know it seems hard. Hell, when I hit the road and started living on my own, I was scared as hell. But it's worth it, man. It's so goddamn worth it. It's like—it's like breathing for the first time. It's like being reborn."

Dean gazes wistfully around the room. "I bet it is."

"Dean, you're cool, funny, and smart as hell, and I think you deserve everything you want in the world. You deserve it all. This," he sweeps his arm out in a displaying gesture, "could easily be yours. Hell, you could probably find a setup twice as nice as this." He tightens his hand on Dean's shoulder, the heat from his palm seeping through Dean's shirt. "Dean, you're the kind of person who can go out and get what he wants, you know? You can do anything, man. The world's your goddamn oyster."

The words crash over Dean like a wave. He stares at Trevor, gets lost in those brilliant, deep brown eyes, and for the first time feels as if he is in the presence of someone who truly values him. Not as Sam's older brother or one of John's boys or even as a hunter—he values him just for being Dean. He doesn't know about what Dean does or who Dean is, he just knows that Dean Winchester is a nineteen year old guy who likes to work on cars. He knows that Dean likes telling dumb jokes while they sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the curb eating lunch outside of Darby's Diner. He knows that Dean cares about his little brother. He knows that Dean's favorite color is blue. He knows that Dean dropped out of school but can still fix a car like no one's business. He knows that Dean loves the Rolling Stones.

He just— _knows_ Dean. And more importantly, he thinks Dean is capable of anything.

Without planning to or thinking about the possible ramifications, Dean throws his arms around Trevor's neck and pulls him into a tight, desperate hug. Much to Dean's surprise (and relief), Trev welcomes the embrace and wraps his arms around Dean's back, pulling him closer.

They stay like that for a while, hearts beating against one another, until Dean draws back to look at him. Something warm and bright unfurls in his chest at the sight of Trevor's face. He's so goddamn _good_ to Dean, so easygoing and fun and warm, that it makes Dean's chest ache. He's never been treated with this much kindness before, and he's starving for more of it.

"You good?" Trev asks softly.

"Yeah," Dean murmurs.

And that's when Dean kisses him. He doesn't even think about it; it just seems like the next natural thing to do. It's a soft press of lips that lasts less than two seconds, but it still feels earth-shattering. Belatedly, Dean realizes it's the first time he's kissed a guy.

"Um, Dean," Trev says gently, pulling away, his hand on Dean's chest, "I like you a lot, but I, uh, don't swing that way."

Dean blinks, not registering Trevor's words for a moment.

Then it hits him. _Hard._ Horror and embarrassment crest over him like a flood. "Shit." He stumbles back, trying to put distance between himself and Trevor. "I didn't—I shouldn't have..."

"Dean, it's fine," Trev assures him, his expression just as benevolent as it was before. "I'm not some wacked out homophobe, I promise I'm not going to freak out."

"God, I'm such an idiot. I'm sorry, dude. I…I don't know what came over me."

Trevor sits on the armrest of the sofa. "Listen, if I were into guys, you'd be the first one on my list, alright?" He offers a smile to ease the mood. "I mean, you're hot _and_ obsessed with cars—that's pretty much the dream."

Dean appreciates the attempt at lightening the tension, so he tries to return the favor. "And I don't mind your corny jokes either, so that's a plus."

"Hey! My jokes are not corny!" Trevor protests.

"They're lame as hell, man, just admit it."

"Nope! We'll just have to agree to disagree on my _excellent_ sense of humor," Trevor says, standing up. "Now, what do you say we watch the game? Cowboys vs the Browns, tonight."

Dean grins. "Hell yes, I'm putting money on Dallas."

"Pft. You think you can beat Cleveland? They're at their prime right now, man, there's no way Hardy's gonna stop 'em."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, waving him away. "Just get your wallet ready cause it's gonna take a _big_ hit when the Cowboys win tonight."

"Fighting words, Winchester," Trevor laughs. "Ice cold beer sound good?"

As catastrophic as things nearly became a moment ago, everything feels completely unchanged, and Dean could not be more grateful for it.

Dean grins and settles onto the sofa. "Sign me up, man."

* * *

After school one day, Sam shows up at the garage with a bloody nose and a shredded backpack.

Dean drops his tools in an instant and rushes over to Sam, his blood already boiling. Trev's on a lunchbreak right now, but it's a slow day so Dean won't be missed.

"Who the hell did this to you, Sammy?" Dean demands, holding Sam at arm's distance so he can take in his appearance. He eyes the rips in Sam's clothes and the fresh bruises on his arms, and he sees red. "Give me a name."

"It doesn't matter," Sam says, ducking his head. "It's different guys every day. They're pissed that I beat up one of their friends, but I only did it cause he was picking on this kid, Luke. Now he won't stop telling everyone to come after me."

"What's the guy's name?" Dean repeats.

"I don't want to say."

" _Sam."_

"Some guy named Jack," Sam mutters.

"Jack who?"

"Jack Garcia."

"Yeah? Well Jack Garcia is about to find out what it feels like to have a foot shoved up his ass," Dean growls. "Where does this piece of shit live?"

"Dean, I don't want you to fight him, okay?" Sam pleads. His bottom lip trembles slightly and his forehead creases—two tell-tale signs that he's about to start crying. He sucks in a huge, shaky breath and valiantly blinks back the tears. "I just—I don't know what I'm gonna do because they threw my textbooks in the lake, Dean, and if I can't pay for them, the school's gonna kick me out of Drama."

"How much do you need and how soon do you have to pay the school back, Sammy?" Dean asks.

"A hundred and fifty bucks. I have two days before they notice," Sam sniffs. "Dad won't give me the money, you already know how much he hates Drama."

Yeah, there's no way John would be willing to shell out nearly two hundred bucks to replace some school supplies.

"Don't worry about it, Sammy," Dean says resolutely. "Consider it taken care of."

…

Dean hasn't done this in months—he stopped as soon as he got a job at Freeman's—so he's a little rusty getting back into the swing of things. As reluctant as he is to dive back into this, he knows he has no choice. The only thing that makes Sam happy these days is Drama, and Dean's not gonna be the one who stops him from doing it.

At eleven-thirty that night, he pulls on tight jeans and a plain white t-shirt, then styles his hair with the last bit of hair gel in the cabinet. To loosen up a bit and ease that familiar ache of disgust, Dean gulps down a shot of tequila and splashes his face with ice water.

"Sammy, I'll be back later, alright?" Dean says, pulling on a jacket. "Don't wait up."

"Are you gonna go shoot some pool?" Sam asks, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Yeah. Don't worry about the money, Sam, I'm gonna earn it all back tonight."

Sam sits up in bed, casting his book aside. "Then can I come with you? It's my fault that we have to earn this money in the first place, so I think I should learn how to—"

"No," Dean says flatly, opening the door. "It's too late at night for a fifteen year old to be wandering around a bar."

"Dean—"

"I'll be here when you wake up, alright?" He steps outside into the cold air and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Goodnight, Sammy."

…

When Dean steps into Glendive Saloon, he's shocked to find how little the bar scene has changed in his time away. Doesn't matter that he's never been here before, all bars are the same—they smell like stale booze and look like hell. Drowsy country music spills from the speakers, slow as molasses, and flickering pink lights rotate around the room, casting a neon glow over the dead-eyed patrons sipping their beer.

A fair-haired man a little over thirty gazes at Dean from across the room, so Dean saunters over with a smirk.

"Hey," Dean smiles, lightly touching the man's arm. "How ya doing?"

"Just fine," the man drawls. He takes a swig from his beer without breaking eye contact. "You?"

"I could be better," Dean says, affecting a pout. "I'm a little lonely."

"That so?"

"Yeah," he lets his hand rest against the swell of the stranger's bicep, "think you could help me with that?"

The man grins and leans forward. His teeth look blindingly white in the darkness. "And how can I do that, sugar?"

Dean crams down his disgust and forces himself to sound breathy and coy. "Seventy bucks, whatever you want, however you want it."

"Just seventy?" the man asks, his hand splayed over Dean's wrist. His fingers stroke up and down Dean's pulse point.

"It's a hell of a deal," Dean says back, waiting for the guy to name a location and get on with it already.

"Sure is. I bet the boys back at the station would be real happy to hear about it, too."

The smile freezes on Dean's face. "What?"

He feels the handcuffs clamp around his wrist before he can think of a way to bolt.

Blonde guy drops the façade and flashes his badge. "I'm with the Glendive Police Department and you, young man, are under arrest for solicitation of sex."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! Let me know what you think in the comments, your feedback is always greatly appreciated! :)**


	4. Part 4

**A/N: Hey, guys! Again, thank you all so much for offering feedback, it helps a lot with the writing process :) This will be the last chapter of Dean's childhood. Everything after this point takes place around season 5, after Dean has come back from hell.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Nineteen (cont.)_

.

The police station is empty save for a woman in her forties with smeared mascara and a neon pink crop top. Her fishnet stockings have a run in them, and she's clinging to the packet of cigarettes in her hand like they're her only life source.

"Sit here, we gotta go through your paperwork" Officer Williams says gruffly, pushing him towards the rows of plastic chairs. Obediently, Dean takes a seat, his cuffed wrists held meekly in his lap.

"Whaddaya in here for, sweetie?" the woman rasps. She has streaks of lipstick on her nicotine-stained teeth, and pale wisps of yellow hair springing free from her ponytail. "Handsome thing like you doesn't belong in cuffs."

Dean wraps his arms around himself to try and stop shivering, because it's freezing in his thin white shirt and the room feels like a refrigerator. He leans away from her as much as he can and doesn't reply.

She whistles lowly. "Well, whatever it is, sugar, it sure must be bad. You're white as a sheet."

"Don't worry about it," Dean says shorty. He's trying to seem uninterested and straightforward, but his nervousness seeps into his tone and makes the phrase sound small—scared, even.

"Drugs?" she asks, tapping her bright red acrylic nails against the arm rest.

"No."

"Five finger discount?"

"No."

"You get in some kind of fight with a cop?"

" _No."_

She narrows her watery-blue eyes and scrutinizes him. Her false lashes are sliding off her right eyelid, leaving behind a strip of glitter and glue, but her gaze is strangely sharp. After moment she nods soberly. "I get it, kid."

Dean clenches his jaw and rubs his arms, goose bumps stubbornly popping up from the cold. "Do you?"

She shrugs and looks away. "Working the corners, just like me."

Shame bubbles in his gut like poison. He can't bring himself to reply.

"Lindy," a man standing at the front desk calls. He's reedy and tall, with straw-colored hair, dark brown eyes, and hollowed cheeks that remind Dean of a skeleton. There's a clipboard in one hand and a wallet in the other. "Just signed you out, let's go."

The woman (Lindy, Dean assumes) looks up, her face filled with relief.

" _Thank you_ , Jack, you're a saint." She stands up and smooths down her skirt, her bracelets and rings catching the light as she moves. She looks back at Dean and something like pity crosses her features.

"Here," she says, handing him her faux-fur coat. "That shirt ain't gonna keep you warm tonight."

He swallows hard. _Tonight._ He has to stay here, alone in a jail cell.

"Thanks," he says quietly, accepting the bundle of clothing.

She nods, then leans in and lowers her voice. "Listen, kid, I don't know what your situation is, but when they give you your phone call, call someone who can pay your bail. Fast. Because these bastards will let you sit in a cell for weeks if you don't. My, uh, _friend,_ Jack, has the cash to pay for me, so I get to bolt." She gives his knee a comforting pat. "Just make sure the person you call is someone who's gonna get you outta here, too, sugar."

…

Dean has to decide who to call. There's no way he's calling Trevor because he knows the guy is just as broke as he is, plus, he doesn't want his only friend to see him in this position. Sam is clearly out the question; Dean wouldn't be able to stand it if his little brother's image of him was shattered. That means the only option left is, unfortunately, John.

John, his homophobic, impatient, perpetually-disappointed father. He's going to be pissed, but Dean doesn't have much of a choice here. John's gonna find out anyway when Dean doesn't turn up at the hotel later today. It's already one in the morning and if John doesn't see him by at least eight o'clock, he's gonna come looking.

At least this way, John might appreciate the fact that Dean is telling the truth. Maybe that will soften the blow.

"Five minutes," the guard tells him. "That's all you're gonna get. No more, no less."

"Got it."

Cradling the phone against his ear, Dean calls John's cell and prays that answers.

"Hello?" John says, his voice rough with drink. He doesn't sound wasted yet, so he must've just had his first whiskey of the night.

"Dad," Dean exhales, relieved that he picked up at all.

"Dean? Where the hell are you calling me from?"

The guard mouths _four minutes left._

"Dad, I need help," Dean says in a rush.

The last time he said that phrase, he was four years old, asking John to help him finish building his Lego tower while Mary put Sam to bed upstairs— " _Daddy, I need help, 'cause Mommy is playing with Sammy right now."_ There's a twisted kind of irony in the fact that he's uttering those same words now, in such a vastly different context.

"Where are you?" John asks again.

"The police station."

"Dean, what the _hell_ have you—"

"Dad, I don't have a lot of time left, but I need you to come down. Please."

"Dean—"

But before John can finish speaking, the guard grabs the phone out of Dean's hand and hangs it up. He slides the cuffs back onto Dean's wrists and gestures towards the empty chair in the corner of the room. "You can wait here, Winchester."

…

A flickering florescent bulb hangs from the ceiling, swinging slowly back and forth like a pendulum. Anxious and jittery, Dean clenches and unclenches his fists, his blunt nails digging red crescents into his palms. He's alone. The guard is waiting outside, the back of his head visible through the small, square window on the door.

This tiny, drab space reminds Dean of those interrogation rooms he's see on TV. The only thing missing is a table full of evidence and a passionate detective slamming his fist down and demanding answers to questions.

The door creaks open.

"Your father's here, Mr. Winchester," the guard announces. "I'll give you some time to speak with him."

Dean nods.

When John walks into the room, Dean feels a combination of hope and fear.

"Dad," Dean says, standing up. He starts to smile, but the look on John's face stops him. He takes an involuntary step back.

"Don't call me that," John says coldly. He moves into the light, revealing the coldly furious look on his face.

Dean blinks several times, dread trickling through his veins like mercury. "Yes, sir," he says, his eyes automatically falling to his shoes.

"They told me what you're in here for, boy," John says lowly, stepping closer. His gaze is as hard as granite. "Screwing around with guys, Dean? That's what you've been doing this past month?" His voice gets darker and darker. "Working street corners like some goddamn bitch?"

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers. A sob rises in his chest, but he forces it down and tries to keep his features steely.

John grabs his wrists through the cuffs and squeezes them. "While I'm working hard to save this town, you're letting strangers fuck you like some whore? This is how you repay me for working hard to take care of you and Sam? This is the thanks I get for teaching you two how to hunt? For putting you through school? For making sure you have a goddamn roof over your head?"

Dean's bones ache with the force of John's grip. Tears gather behind his eyes, and he can't tell if it's from the sharp sting of the metal cuffs digging into his skin or from the biting hatred of John's words.

"I'm sorry, Dad, I'm sorry," he chokes out, the words twisting in a sob. John grips Dean's arms with bruising strength, but the pain is nothing in comparison to the terrible ache of self-hatred clawing beneath his skin. "I had to do this, okay? I didn't have a choice, I—"

" _You didn't have a choice_? What the fuck does that mean, Dean?" John shouts, shoving Dean away. Dean stumbles backwards and crashes painfully into the cement wall behind him. "My son will not be a _faggot."_

"Please," Dean begs through tears. "Please, just listen to me, Dad—"

" _Don't_ fucking call me that, Dean." John says coldly. "I'm glad your mom isn't alive to see this. She wouldn't be able to stand it."

Dean wilts against the wall, his heart shriveling at John's words.

"You're a fucking disappointment," John spits, his features marred with disgust. "I can't even stand to look at you right now."

He looks like he's one second from actually hitting Dean, when the door opens and the guard steps in. He stares blandly between Dean and his father.

"Will you be paying Mr. Winchester's bail, sir?"

"No," John says flatly, turning away. "Let him rot in here for all I care."

"S-sir," Dean protests weakly, his hands trembling in the cuffs. "What am I supposed to do then?"

"That's not my fucking problem, Dean. You can find a way to deal with this."

…

His cell is cold and dark and no matter how hard he rubs his arms, he can't seem to get the goosebumps to disappear. As grateful as he is for Lindy's coat, it's too small to actually wear, so the most he can do is pull his knees to his chest and drape it over his lap.

After a half hour of just sitting there in the dark, reliving John's words and hopelessly trying to figure out how the hell he's gonna pay his bail, Dean decides to give it a break. Still shaking, he curls up on the flat, hard bed mat in the corner of the cell and falls into a dreamless, restless sleep.

* * *

Four and a half hours later, the guard returns to his cell.

"Winchester, you're free to go."

Dean sits up, groggily rubbing his eyes. He definitely just misheard the man. "What?"

"Yeah," the guard says, pulling his keyring from his belt. "Your bail's been paid, you're free to go."

That phrase erases every last trace of drowsiness.

"It's been paid?" Dean asks in disbelief.

"It has."

Dean's knees go weak with relief. Despite all of those terrible things John said and did last night, he still came back and bailed Dean out. If John was willing to come back here and pay for Dean to be released, then at the very least he intends to hear Dean's side of things, right?

"Right this way, Mr. Winchester," the guard says, guiding Dean down the long, gray hallway. "He's right by the front desk, filling out some final paperwork. Feel free to join him."

"Thank you," Dean says in a rush. He rounds the corner of the hallway, his heart pounding and his mind buzzing, ready to come face to face with his father and finally speak openly with him.

But when Dean sees who's standing at the desk, scribbling their signature on a clipboard of papers, he stops dead in his tracks.

"Trev?"

"Hey, Dean," Trevor says somewhat shyly. The purple shadows under his eyes relay a long, sleepless night, but his mouth turns up in a tired smile nonetheless. "How're you feeling?"

Whether it's the crushing disappointment of John not being the one to bail him out or the sickening shame of having his friend see him like this, Dean immediately feels a sob gather in his chest. Moisture springs to his eyes and he has to clench his jaw and count to ten before he can even form a sentence.

"Like shit," he croaks.

"I figured," Trev says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"How did you know I was here?"

"Sam called me when you didn't come home last night. Apparently your dad wasn't around either, so he panicked. I told him you were at my place, then I called your phone to see where you _really_ were. Some deputy picked up and told me you'd been taken to the station."

Dean doesn't ask the questions looming in the air. _But do you know why I'm here? Do you know what I've done? What I've been doing?_

Another sob clenches in his chest as the memories of last night wash over him. Ashamed, tired, and wracked with self-hatred, Dean drops his gaze to the floor.

"Dean?" Trevor says gently. "C'mere."

Wordlessly, Trevor gathers Dean into his arms and holds him tightly against his chest. The feeling of Trevor's heartbeat pounding against his own and the warmth of the embrace makes Dean feel safer than he has all night. He feels like he's about to start fucking crying again, so he pushes his face harder into Trevor's shoulder and screws his eyes shut.

"Hey, I have an idea," Trev says softly, rubbing a hand between Dean's shoulder blades. "How about the two of us grab some breakfast?"

Dean sniffs and nods, the movement stifled somewhat by their proximity. "Darby's?"

"Of course."

…

It isn't until they're sitting across from each other in the diner that the full force of Dean's shame finally hits him.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," Dean says, moodily dragging his fork through his untouched pancakes. "I didn't need you to save me."

"I know that," Trev replies calmly, taking a bite of his omelet. "But I wanted to help you. You're my friend, and that's what friends do. They _help_ each other."

"No, you _pity_ me," Dean says flatly, dropping his fork and giving up the pretense of eating entirely. "You pity me and think that you have some—some _obligation_ to help me out or something." He pointedly looks away. "Newsflash, Trevor, you _don't_. I was fine back there."

"Fine?" Trevor puts his knife down and stares at Dean from across the table. "You were sitting in a jail cell at six in the morning."

"Yeah? Well, I've been in shitty situations before and I've always figured it out on my own. I don't need you stepping in and saving the day like I'm some goddamn damsel in distress."

Trevor stares at him in disbelief. "Is that what you think this is, Dean? Me just feeding my freaking ego?"

Dean shifts his jaw and doesn't reply.

"Wow. I didn't think you had such a low opinion of me," Trevor says, shoving his plate away and leaning back. His brown eyes seem to pierce right through Dean. "Did it ever occur to you that I did what I did because I care about you? Because I didn't want you to be stuck in cell for who knows how long? Is that so freaking hard to believe? Because I do care about you, man, and the last thing I want is for you to have to go through shit like that if you don't have to."

"You don't get it," Dean says hoarsely, the words tasting like sandpaper in his mouth. Shame and self-disgust crawl under his skin. "Do you even know what I was in there for?"

"Yeah, Dean, I do," Trevor replies bluntly. "And I also know why you were in that situation and how your old man must've reacted. You keep forgetting that I've been in rough spots before too. I know how desperate people can get sometimes, alright? If you're pissed or scared because you think I'm going to look down on you, I can tell you right fucking now that I am the last person who would ever pass judgement on you, man. I would never condemn you for anything."

"I don't deserve your kindness," Dean says softly. "My dad was right. I'm a whore, Trevor. A worthless fucking _whore_. I could've just waited another week for my next paycheck and things would've been fine. Why did I have to go out, looking for trouble? What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I like this?"

"Dean—"

"No, Trev, I-I gotta go," Dean says shakily, staring down at his watch. "I have to take Sam to school in ten minutes, because John sure as hell isn't going to, and I don't want Sam to have to walk five miles again."

"I'll do it, Dean. I'll drive the three of us, we'll drop off Sam, and then we can finish talking."

"I need to go," Dean repeats, getting out of the booth.

"Dean, really, it's no trouble—"

"Trevor," Dean says, his voice shaky but resolute. "I'm leaving."

Trevor frowns, the light fading from his eyes as he realizes what Dean is saying. "You're not just talking about the diner, are you?"

"John isn't gonna let us stay here. Not after what happened."

"Dean, you guys have only been here for a month, would he really just pick up and leave?"

"Yeah," Dean replies shortly, his throat aching, "he would." He reaches into his back pocket and fumbles for his wallet. Inside, there's some petty cash he found lying around the motel, plus a fourth of last week's paycheck.

"Here," he says, dropping everything on the table. "I know it isn't enough, but I'll mail you the rest of the cash when I get my hands on it. I'm gonna pay you back every cent."

Trevor doesn't even look at the money. "Is this goodbye then?"

Dean blinks back the moisture in his eyes and shoves his hands in his pockets. "I'll catch you later, Trev."

And with that, he turns around and leaves the diner.

* * *

The moment that Sam hops into the front seat of the car, he can tell something's wrong.

"Dean, are you okay?"

Dean bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds and doesn't reply, his eyes fixed resolutely on the road ahead. _Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry._

"Dean."

"Sam, I'm fine," Dean says, but his voice cracks on Sam's name.

"What's wrong? What happened?" Sam frowns, his bottom lip jutting out and his forehead creasing. "Where were you all night?"

Dean thinks about Trevor's face as he walked out of the diner. He thinks about John's hateful words and bruising grip. He thinks about the handcuffs around his wrist and the coldness of the jail cell. He knows he doesn't have the right to seek comfort in anyone—it's his job to shoulder the world, after all—but right now, he can't take it anymore. Even though Sam's in the car and he promised himself he'd never let his brother see him weak, he pulls over to the side of the road and makes peace with the fact that he's about to fall the fuck apart.

"Dean?" Sam says quietly.

He doesn't respond. Instead, he drops his forehead against the steering wheel, covers his face with his hands, and just starts sobbing. Ugly, terrible, wrenching sobs that tear through his throat like claws. He feels like he's drowning.

"I-I'm sorry," he chokes out. He can barely see through the tears in his eyes. "I'm so fucking worthless. I'm sorry I did what I did but I _had_ to, I _needed_ to—god, I'm a screw up, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_."

He doesn't even know who he's apologizing to anymore. Sam, himself, his dad, Trevor— _Mary_ , even.

"Dean—"

"Don't say anything, S-sammy, please, I can't take it. Just, just, please, don't."

He hates himself so goddamn much that it's actually making him sick. Without looking at Sam, Dean shoves the door open and stumbles out of the car, vomiting in the brush on the side of the road. He falls to his knees and heaves and heaves, until he's just sitting there, gagging and crying.

Sam darts of out of the passenger's seat in an instant and crouches beside Dean, stroking his back while he sits there, hunched over and hiccupping.

"Dean, calm down. Breathe," Sam soothes. "What happened?"

"I just—I," he can't bring himself to say it. The truth sits on his tongue like poison. Images of his father's burning eyes and white knuckles flash across his vision like a slap and he briefly finds himself unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

"Nothing," he croaks at last, his voice snagging on the last syllable. "It's nothing, Sammy. Dad and I just had a fight."

Sam sits down next to Dean with his legs crossed, looking as though he doesn't intend to move for a while. "A big one?"

Dean sniffs and wipes his eyes with his shaking hands. "Yeah, Sammy. A big one."

"What was it about?"

"I can't tell you," Dean says hoarsely. He grits his teeth and tries to choke down the renewed wave of disgust that crashes through him. "I shouldn't be acting like this at all, actually. I-I'm being a bitch right now."

"Hey, you're not, Dean, just tell me what—"

"No," he says in a quavering voice. He stands up and halfheartedly brushes the dust from his jacket. His throat aches, his eyes sting, and his head is throbbing, but all of that is nothing in comparison to the yawning chasm at the pit of his chest. He's already disappointed his father today, there's no need to tarnish his brother's image of him too. He won't be able to stand seeing that same rejection and disgust on Sam's face. "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," Sam says, grabbing his arm. "Just tell me what's wrong. Please."

He can't say ' _nothing'_ , because Sam isn't an idiot and he's not gonna let this go until Dean tells him something believable.

"He…he caught me with some guy," Dean says at last.

Technically, it isn't a lie.

"He did? Who? Was it that guy from the garage? Trevor?"

Shakily, Dean drags his wrist across his eyes to mop up some of the tears. "No, just some dude."

"What'd he do?" Sam asks quietly. He huddles close to Dean, just like he did when they were kids and Dean would tell him a scary story. "What'd he say?"

"You know, typical Dad stuff. Called me names, said he was disappointed in me." Dean forces a watery laugh, even though there is nothing remotely funny about this. "Then he kicked me out for the night so I stayed at Trevor's place."

Dean doesn't roll up his sleeves and show Sam the finger-shaped bruises crawling up his arms, or the bracelets of scabs from the handcuffs. He doesn't mention all of the slurs and hateful words John slung at him, nor does he mention that John was content to let him 'rot in a jail cell' all night. He doesn't bring up the disgust and horror on John's face, or the way his eyes looked empty as he called Dean a disappointment. And he sure as fucking _hell_ doesn't tell Sam that the whole reason they're in this mess is because Dean has been selling himself to strangers for the past few years, just to keep food on the table.

"Dean, there's gotta be more that you're not telling me," Sam insists. "Otherwise you wouldn't be so upset."

"Told you, Sammy, I was just being a bitch."

 _Working the corner like some goddamn bitch. Some common whore. Some fucking fag._

"Don't say that, Dean."

Dean closes his eyes and doesn't say anything more.

In reaction to his silence, Sam drapes his arm over Dean's shoulders and pulls him into a hug. "Listen, Dean, I don't care what the hell Dad says about you. You're still my brother and I love you no matter what. That's never gonna change. Whatever you are, _I accept you_."

…

When they get back to the motel later that day, John has already packed their bags and loaded them in the car. He doesn't speak to Dean for the three days it takes them to drive to Louisiana, and when Sam asks why they're leaving, John just tightens his grip on the steering wheel and glares at the Dean in the rearview mirror.

"Because this town's nothing but trouble, Sam."

* * *

 _Twenty_

 _._

Dean gets good at sharking pool—hell, he gets better than John. He starts stealing wallets and faking credit cards and lining his pockets with things he can't afford. He learns how to smile and grin and play the part of the wholesome young man, just long enough for his target to look away from the cash register. He scratches away barcodes in the grocery store while he chats up old ladies buying apples, and rips off price tags in the mall while he jokes around with pretty girls stocking the shelves. He hotwires old cars in the bad parts of town and pawns them for petty cash. He steals identities and forges signatures and falsifies checks. He does all of this to make sure Sam never has to go without anything again, and to make sure he never has to ask John for one more fucking favor for the rest of his life.

Never again will he demean himself. Never again will he walk into a bar and bat his eyes like a schoolgirl. Never again will he sacrifice his dignity for money.

 _Never again_ will he give his old man a reason to look at him like he's less than dirt.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, guys! It would be really cool to hear what you guys are looking forward to/expecting in the ensuing chapters, so feel free to let me know in the comments!**

 **The next update will be two Saturdays (or Fridays) from now, rather than in a week, so make sure to sub/follow.**

 **Until next time! xoxo**


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